


The Life You Choose

by CosmicOcelot



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Can't believe that's a tag, Dancing Lessons, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Jaskier getting that good good validation, Lambert Being an Asshole (The Witcher), M/M, Sharing a Bed, Wow, complimentary outfits, no beta we die like renfri, tavern performances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25948810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicOcelot/pseuds/CosmicOcelot
Summary: A drabble collection.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 182





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! So, I've decided to make this little collection of short pieces that I couldn't really fit into other longer ones. For some reason, I find it a lot easier to write most scenes from Jaskier's POV; but there are some pieces that don't work unless they're in Geralt's POV, so I've decided to put them here for your enjoyment. I'll likely update with more short pieces when the mood strikes, so mind the tags for updates.   
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Jaskier moves through the tavern like his feet can’t bear to stay in one place.

The patrons clap and laugh as he twirls among them, never missing a chord or a note as he dances throughout the crowded tavern. Geralt is expecting him to give a final bow at any second, to come crawling back to the table in the dark, ‘brooding’ Jaskier would call it, corner that Geralt has made his own. He can practically hear the rasp in the bard’s throat already, having sung his heart and lungs out for so long; excitement over the first opportunity to perform in a long while overwhelming what little sense he has.

The two of them have been sticking to more remote, less used paths as they journey together, Geralt having decided that the two of them should avoid main roads after a certain incident. Said incident being a group of travelling mercenaries disguised as cut-throats – or vice versa, Geralt’s not entirely sure and the only person he knows who could and would complain about the lack of specificity would be Jaskier, and he was next to him the whole time. So, if past experience is anything to go by, the bard likely already has the whole thing jotted down in another one of those damned scrolls of his, ready to be turned into yet another tavern favourite.

In any case, the cut-throats – mercenaries – _bastards_ – had decided that whatever village they planned to plunder that day wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as cutting up a Witcher.

A mistake that Geralt took pleasure in correcting.

Jaskier ends on a particularly triumphant sounding note, and the tavern erupts into cheers that quickly give way to calls for another song. Jaskier wastes little time before giving into these demands and launching into another one, though the melody is a little more muted this time. There are a few murmurs of discontent from some patrons clearly expecting something a little livelier, but for the most part, people seem to be enjoying this winding down of the evening.

Geralt blames the fatigue of the day’s travel, as well as the soothing notes Jaskier strums out of his lute, for the fact that he doesn’t notice the stranger approach until they’re already sitting at his table.

“Long time no see.”

Geralt’s focus jumps from Jaskier to the stranger immediately, but his body quickly relaxes once the sight, sound and scent of the man reaches him. “Lambert.”

“Last time I checked;” Lambert shoots back with a smirk, “Hello, Geralt. I’d ask how you’ve been, but it seems the whole damn continent is singing about what you had for breakfast these days.”

“Hmm.” Geralt grunts, taking another pull from his tankard. Even on his best days, Lambert is a trial to deal with; add to that an entire day of travelling and a tone practically reeking envy and Geralt is wishing like hell that Jaskier had cut his performance short by a few songs so the two of them could have been upstairs already by now.

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” Lambert’s tone is light, playful, but his eyes are sharp and cold; as though he’s got some monster reflected in them instead of an old friend, “I can’t get through a single contract without at least one person asking if I know _the White Wolf of Rivia_.”

“And what do you tell them?” Geralt plays into Lambert’s game reluctantly, deciding it’s better to just let him get his grievance with Geralt’s – unasked for – fame all out now rather than letting it fester until they gather together at Kaer Morhen for the winter.

“That the only Geralt of Rivia I know likes to slit the throats of pregnant women and eat their unborn children.” Lambert’s face twitches slightly when Geralt doesn’t react openly, before a smirk is quickly plastered across his lips as he holds up a hand placatingly. “Kidding. I tell them I don’t know you; saves me from having to answer all their damn questions.”

“Hmm.” Geralt takes another pull from his tankard, risking a glance out of the corner of his eyes at Jaskier to make sure the bard hasn’t somehow stumbled into trouble in the past few minutes.

Unfortunately, Lambert catches the glance, following it to where Jaskier is finishing up the last verse of his song and letting out a low whistle. “Quite the voice on that one; makes you wonder what it’d sound like screaming your name.”

Geralt pauses, lowering the tankard that had been halfway to his lips back down to the table, gaze flickering between Jaskier and Lambert’s expression.

Lambert pretends not to notice the slip in control, but Geralt can practically taste the smugness oozing off of him as he continues to drag his eyes up and down Jaskier. The sight makes Geralt’s teeth itch, an uncomfortable twisting sensation in his gut accompanied by a heat blooming through his chest.

“I’ll have to introduce myself when he’s finished,” Lambert continues, still staring at Jaskier like he’s some sort of vampire feeding on the sight of the bard alone, “see if he has any... plans for the evening.”

Geralt sighs, ignoring the way the burning in his chest grows stronger. “Lambert – ”

“Hold that thought, Geralt;” Lambert waves down a passing barmaid, “could you tell the barkeep to give the bard an ale, when he goes to collect his pay? On my tab, of course.”

The barmaid nods and quickly scurries off towards the bar, clearly eager to be away from the two strange men with the glowing eyes, and Lambert turns back to Geralt like the cat that got the cream. “Sorry, you were saying something?”

Geralt arches an eyebrow at the other witcher. “He’s my travelling companion, Lambert. Nothing more.”

“Travelling companion?” Lambert frowns, clearly disappointed to lose whatever imaginary advantage he thought he had in this this ridiculous game.

Geralt nods, taking another pull from his tankard as a round of applause echoes through the tavern, watching over the rim as Jaskier gives one last sweeping bow before heading over to the counter to collect his pay. The bags under the bard’s eyes are prominent, even from here, but he accepts both the coin-purse and the tankard of ale from the barkeep. He’s already offering Geralt a smile as he turns to heads toward his table in the far corner of the room, but that smile quickly falls away as curiosity and confusion overtake him instead – the former, Geralt notes, far outweighing the other. Geralt barely resists the urge to shake his head at the fool; even exhausted, Jaskier can’t help but be drawn to danger.

“Then, you won’t mind if I plough him?”

Ice crystalizes in Geralt’s veins, freezing him as he stares at Lambert feeling as though he’d just received a savage blow to his gut, mind struggling to process the words.

“Apparently,” Jaskier smiles at the two of them as he approaches, seemingly oblivious to the way Geralt’s muscles are still locked in place, “one of you fine gentleman is responsible for quenching this poor bard’s thirst. So,” he moves over to Geralt’s side of the table, sliding on the bench, “to whom do I owe my thanks?”

However, as he gets comfortable on the bench, Jaskier’s knee nudges Geralt’s gently, but purposefully, in a silent question that the bard has asked many times since the two of them have begun travelling together.

_Are you alright?_

Its appearance here makes some of the tension seep from Geralt’s muscles, and he brushes his knee back against Jaskier’s to confirm that he is. Despite the fact that the burning in his chest has now morphed into a kind of ugly, festering feeling; a feeling that only grows in ferocity when Lambert extends a hand towards Jaskier, smiling widely.

“Lambert. I’m a... friend of Geralt’s from, well, I guess you could call it a school.” 

“Jaskier.” Jaskier takes Lambert’s hand, shaking it firmly, eyes quickly moving down to the wolf amulet around his neck. “You’re a witcher?”

“Most days.” Lambert holds Jaskier’s hand for a moment longer than necessary before letting go. “Nowhere near as famous as this one, though. Though I’ve heard tell that he has you to thank for his infamy.”

Jaskier waves away the compliment with a slight laugh. “Oh, not really – he’s the one that does all the... devil hunting and dragon slaying – I just compose it all into something that’s somewhat melodious. That they’ve gained such popularity is simply a testament to his adventures, not, as Geralt’s surely already mentioned, my rather lackluster singing.”

“Really?” Lambert watches Geralt out of the corner of his eye as he talks, “I thought you were very good – the best I’ve heard in decades.”

Jaskier practically preens under the attention, like some damn peacock, while Geralt’s jaw clenches tightly. “Thank you, sir. Tell me,” he leans further across the table towards Lambert, eyes alight with that all too familiar curiosity of his, “what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“What brings any witcher anywhere,” Lambert drawls, “a monster; and a contract for its head.”

“What kind?” Jaskier asks, with an eagerness that any normal person would find slightly disconcerting.

Even Lambert appears momentarily taken aback by it, watching Jaskier for a moment to see if he’s serious, then as though he isn’t quite sure what to make of him. “A forktail. It’s been terrorizing some villages a few days north from here.”

“A forktail.” Jaskier repeats, voice full of quiet awe, “Sounds incredible.”

“So long as you’re looking at a picture of the damn thing and not staring it down.” Lambert counters, taking another pull from his tankard. “Then it’s just a pain in the ass.”   
  
“A deadly one at that.” Geralt adds, and, before Jaskier can say one word more, continuing, “You’re not going.”

Jaskier looks at him indignantly. “I didn’t say anything!”

At Geralt’s arched eyebrow, Jaskier eventually gives up any pretence with a sigh, “Come on, Geralt – think of what the experience could do for my lyricism – witnessing such a brutal clash in the flesh – ”

“And losing yours.” Geralt cuts him off.

“You should come.”

Both Geralt and Jaskier blink, before turning to face Lambert in tandem, Jaskier’s brow furrowing. “Sorry, I think I misheard, did you – did you just invite me to come with you?”

“Why not?” Lambert shrugs, “with me keeping him busy, the bastard probably won’t even notice you. And who knows,” Lambert smirks, resting his hand on the table so that it’s just a hairsbreadth away from Jaskier’s, “you might even find a new source of inspiration.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes, making a few incomprehensible noises before something close to words finally manages to escape. “Well, I – ”

“No.”

Beneath the table, Geralt’s left hand is clenched so tightly at his side that his knuckles are beyond white. And that ugly festering feeling has been overwhelmed by a vicious, boiling rage that pours through Geralt’s veins, scalding anything and everything in its path. It’s one thing for Lambert to try and cajole Jaskier into falling into bed with him, but for him to put Jaskier’s life at risk just so he can have the satisfaction of one-upping Geralt –

“Jaskier,” he stands up, keeping Lambert’s gaze the whole time, and if looks could kill then Lambert would be nothing more than a smear on the tavern floor, “let’s go.”

“Perhaps you should let the bard speak for himself.” Lambert says, tone light, but with smug satisfaction radiating from his entire being, as though this was what he had been hoping for all along – Geralt teetering on the edge of his control, in danger of exploding forth so spectacularly for all to see – for _Jaskier_ to see.

Geralt’s mouth is already opening into a snarl, reply half-formed on his lips when Jaskier beats him to it.  
  
“ _The bard_ ,” Jaskier says, standing up and moving out from behind the table, “is grateful for the offer, Lambert, and in another life would have been glad to take you up on it.” He smiles, but it’s different from his usual smiles, full of too much teeth to be friendly, “Alas, he already has one Witcher’s life to chronicle, and, well, that’s more than enough for anyone to be getting along with.” He nods towards the abandoned tankard of ale on the table. “Thanks for the ale. Geralt?”

Geralt spares Lambert one last glare before following after Jaskier, the two of them making their way through the tavern and up the stairs to their room. The door barely closing behind them before Jaskier heaves out a great big sigh.  
  
“What an _absolute_ bastard.”

He continues as Geralt removes his armor, the witcher trying to rid himself of the last vestiges of that boiling rage at the same time, having far more luck with the former than the latter. “I mean, really, how more obvious could he have made it that he was trying to drive a wedge between the two of us? And ordering an _ale –_ please, if you’re going to try to convince someone to write a song about you, then you should at least spring for a glass of red wine, some decade old vintage – otherwise, why try at all?” Jaskier lets out a huff, kicking off his shoes and flopping down onto the bed. “Now I understand why you dodge all my questions about the other witchers you know.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, sitting down on the edge of the bed to tug off his own shoes and trying not to think of Jaskier being torn to pieces by a forktail, screaming and screaming until his throat went far more raw and hoarse than it ever had from singing, before that voice finally faded away into nothing.

“Geralt?” Jaskier sits up on the bed, tone much softer than before. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Geralt grunts, staring down at the pattern of the grain in the wooden floorboards.

“Well, I think we both know that’s not true.” Jaskier remarks, the bed creaking as he shifts so he’s sitting next to Geralt, their shoulders brushing together gently.

Geralt finally turns to look at Jaskier, but falls short of opening his mouth, mind and throat a tangled mess of emotions and images – a confusing jumble of threads that he has no idea how to weave into anything remotely coherent; to himself or to Jaskier.

“Geralt,” Jaskier is so close, his warmth bleeding through into Geralt, that it would be nothing to reach over and take his hand and hold it in his own, “talk to me.”

And Geralt, he –

He doesn’t say anything.

After a moment of silence, Jaskier seems to take pity on him, nudging his shoulder playfully to shift the mood. “Then, can I guess what you’re thinking? Because I’d bet good coin it involves something to do figure how fast we can get away from Lambert. Just curious – do any of your plans so far involve sleeping in and letting him get a head start? Because I think I could easily sleep for about a week at this point.””

“Hmm.” Geralt laughs through his nose, lips twitching up into a smile as he moves to lay down on the bed, careful to take the side of the bed facing the rest of the room, his swords propped up against the side of the bed beside him. “Depends how much coin you made.”

“Oh,” Jaskier moves over to the side of the bed that’s pressed against the wall, flopping down with a sigh, “enough for another night at least. Plus, a bath and three whole meals. Each.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt’s eyes are already closed, but he can feel Jaskier moving closer underneath the blanket, seeking out the Witcher’s supernatural warmth to fight off the chill seeping through the thin walls and thinner, though not by much, blankets.

“Jaskier – ”

“Oh, come on, Geralt, it’s bloody _freezing_ – ”

“Your singing,” Geralt continues, Jaskier falling silent beside him, “it was... good.”

Geralt waits for Jaskier to jump on the compliment, give a rousing rant about how he always knew that Geralt loved his singing – how could he not? But a minute passes by, and then another, filled with nothing but silence and the faint echoes of the tavern clearing out for the night rising up through the ramshackle floorboards of their room.

Then, slowly, beneath the blankets, Jaskier laces Geralt’s fingers together with his own.

“Thank you, Geralt.”

Jaskier gives one quick, gently squeeze, before trying to take his hand back, but Geralt tightens his grip, keeping it wrapped up with his. He can feel Jaskier’s eyes on his face, but he keeps his own closed, feigning sleep, and Jaskier falls for it – or perhaps merely humours him, but Geralt isn’t all that willing to entertain that possibility right now – shifting into a more comfortable position before eventually his breaths even out into steady inhales and exhales. Geralt’s breaths follow shortly after, falling asleep with his fingers still entwined with Jaskier’s.


	2. Chapter 2

“Please tell me that you're not wearing that.”

Geralt just looks at him, and Jaskier sighs. “Geralt, it’s a party, not a wyvern hunt. You can’t just wear your armour – you need _actual_ clothes. Luckily for you, your very best friend in the whole wide world has your back.” He gestures towards the ornate privacy screen with an elaborate flourish. “I’ve already put it behind the screen – to protect your delicate modesty and all that.”

Geralt sighs. “Jaskier – ”

“Come on, Geralt;” Jaskier pleads, aiming his best puppy dog eyes at the man. “Look, just – _try it_ will you? If you really don’t like it, then I promise I won’t say anything else and you can go in your armor or in nothing but your swords or whatever you want.”

He _wants_ to sleep – the room that Lord Livius has provided them with has a massive bed that promises to be very comfortable once Geralt has divested it of the mountain of pillows stacked on top of the covers. He wanted to spend every moment he wasn't dealing with the suspected griffon harassing the Lord’s grounds sleeping in that bed. However, that was before a messenger had arrived to tell them that the Lord was planning a throwing a little party to both celebrate and spread word that he’d finally managed to secure the services of a witcher. Apparently, having a griffon swoop in and pick off your guests during games of Gwent wasn’t great for one’s social standing and the Lord was keen to seen it repaired as soon as possible. Were he alone, he would have barely glanced at the invitation before going to sleep in the bed. But as soon as he had seen Jaskier’s eyes light up at its arrival, he had known his plans for the evening were nothing more than errant wishes now.

He slips behind the privacy screen with a grumble, resigning himself to being covered in flashy silks with colours so bright and patterns so intricate he’ll barely be able to look at them. However, he’s surprised to see the outfit is a deep black, and when he pulls it on the material is soft and welcoming against his skin. He glances at himself in the mirror, eyes tracing the silver embroidery that adorns his cuffs with twisting vine-like patterns, matching the silver buttons that he buttons up to the base of his throat, leaving room for him to breathe. It’s deceptively simple, no puffed sleeves or shoulder pads in sight, and he grudgingly has to admit that it looks... that it isn’t the worst choice of outfit Jaskier could have made.

He’s already anticipating the smug look on Jaskier’s face when he realizes that Geralt doesn’t actively hate it, stepping out from behind the screen with a barely supressed sigh on his lips –

It’s cut short, however, breath catching in his lungs when his eyes land on Jaskier’s outfit.

He’s buttoning up the last of it when Geralt comes out, black buttons going about halfway up his throat. There are black ruffles at his sleeves that are shinier that the rest of the outfit’s material, and the pants he’s wearing are high-waisted. And when Jaskier catches sight of him in the mirror and turns to face him, Geralt is able to tell that the silver embroidery on the back of his jacket, plum blossoms with their vines and leaves, continues on the front as well.

“So?” Jaskier smiles at him, wide and full of a soft brightness similar to those silver petals when they catch the light. “What do you think?”

It takes Geralt longer than it should to realize that he’s asking for his opinion on Geralt’s outfit, not his own.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, turning back to the mirror and making some final adjustments that don’t seem to change much to Geralt’s eyes. “Well, at least you didn’t rip it off. And I’m reasonably certain I can persuade the tailor to take it back anyway so – ”

“We match.”

Jaskier pauses with his fingers resting on the middle of his jacket, just above one of those silver flowers. “Well, I figured – seeing as we’re going together and all – and besides I haven’t had the chance to wear this outfit yet and I thought I might see how well it was received here before debuting it at court.”

Geralt thinks of the nobles eyeing them as they enter, with no doubt that the two of them arriving together is not some mere whim of fate, and the way the darkness of the outfit somehow makes Jaskier’s eyes that much brighter and bluer.

“Hmm.”

“Like I said, you don’t have to – ”

Geralt slides his swords over his back, ignoring the surprise that blossoms across Jaskier’s face before giving way to that familiar grin.

“What a dashing figure you cut, Sir Witcher.” Jaskier drawls, turning and crossing the room to where Geralt is standing. Reaching up and fiddling with his collar the same way he had fussed over his own outfit not a minute earlier. “Everyone will be falling over themselves for a chance to let you sweep them off their feet. I imagine your dance card will be quite full this evening.”

“I don’t dance.” Geralt growls. 

“Don’t or can’t?” Jaskier arches an eyebrow at him, and a mischievous glint that Geralt has become all too familiar with takes over his eyes at Geralt’s lack of response. “Well, we’ll just have to remedy that, won’t we?”

He takes Geralt’s hands and drags him into the centre of the room, where there’s a little more space. Although, it feels like this whole room is space to Geralt; he can’t imagine what a person would do with it all and he suspects that Lord Livius isn’t entirely sure either.

Jaskier laughs at the stiffness in his movements, shaking his head slightly. “I swear, Geralt, I’ve seen you more comfortable with ten knives at your throat.”

Knives are familiar, a known enemy that he can either combat or he can’t and panicking won’t help either way. Dancing is an entirely different kind of creature, far removed from his bestiary.

“Here.” Jaskier arranges Geralt’s hands for him, placing one on his hip and holding the other in his own out and up to the left slightly, their fingers intertwined. “Try and remember to breathe at some point, Geralt, I promise it won’t be that bad. Oh, and I also promise not to step on your foot every time you make a mistake like Ms. Veola did with me. You wouldn’t believe the bruised, bloody messes my feet were by the time her _lessons_ were over.”

Jaskier starts to move, teaching Geralt the steps slowly and carefully, and Geralt feels like his feet are nothing more than heavy, thick blocks of stone, dragging the two of them down with each and every movement. But the steps are simple enough, once Geralt gets a grasp of them, and soon he’s leading Jaskier through the dance – clumsily at first, but gaining more surety with every second step.

“There, see?” Jaskier smiles up at him, “You’re a natural.”

This close, Geralt can smell the perfume that Jaskier applied for the night – rose and sandalwood. He can feel the sharpness of Jaskier’s waist underneath one hand – a reminder that the two of them need to spend some more coin on meat and bread every now and then, instead of beautifully useless clothes – and the calluses on Jaskier’s fingers from plucking his lute in the other. And for a moment, he feels the urge to pull him closer, to press his face into the crook of his neck and smell past the perfume to the calming, pure Jaskier beneath. To feel his chest against his, feel his heart beat through the fabric and into him, to see if it matches his. 

He leads Jaskier through a twirl instead, warmth in his chest at the laugh it pulls from the man, eye bright and shining when he meets Geralt’s again. And Geralt feels the corner of his lips pull up into a soft smile in return.

“Ah, improvising now, are we?” Jaskier pulls him closer, taking control of the dance for a moment with some nimble foot movements, but Geralt is easily able to follow, “Keep this up and you’ll have the entire ball singing your praises by the time the night is through.”

Geralt leads Jaskier through another twirl, increasing the tempo before shifting his hand to Jaskier’s back and lowering him into a dip that pulls a surprised breath from his lips.

“Jaskier.” Geralt pins him with his gaze, taking in the darkness of his pupils in the low lamplight of the room, the flush in his cheeks and the slight rasp in his breath from the exertion, as he holds him safely in his arms. “If you leave me to the whims of those jackals, I’ll step on every single one of their feet.”

Jaskier stares at him for a moment before snorting, breaking Geralt’s gaze as he turns his own to the side; shaking his head as he tries, unsuccessfully, to hold back his laughs.

Geralt continues to hold him in his grip, fighting to keep the glower on his face as Jaskier’s laughs begin to shake his body.

“Alright, I promise to stay by your side and chase off all the poor lovestruck fools who try and chat you up for a dance.” Jaskier shakes his head, finally getting a hold of himself and turning back to Geralt with a smirk, before tapping Geralt’s waist. “Now, would you mind letting me up? Only, I’m fairly certain you and I are in danger of being truly late, rather than fashionable so, and I’m not sure how well that’ll go over with the Lord and his plans for societal maneuverings this evening.” 

Geralt holds him there for a moment more before pulling Jaskier back to his feet and letting go of his hand and waist, trying to ignore how empty his hands feel without them. 


	3. Chapter 3

By the time he realizes he shouldn’t have taken the third potion, it’s already too late.

The rest of the fight passes in a blur of flesh and silver, blood that isn’t his own soaking into the dirt to the sounds of roars torn from the back of his throat. And soon he is standing, panting harshly, more snarl than breath, and staring down at the dead and desiccating corpse of the thing that tried to steal his life. He barely remembers to sever the head for proof of payment – freeing it from its neck with his hands rather than his blade. He clenches it tightly in his fist, fingers and nails digging into the flesh of it, as he makes his way back; fighting the urge to tip his head back and howl.

It doesn’t take him long to get there, his feet as fast as they are silent, and soon he can hear a familiar voice drifting through the air towards him. Nonsense words that his mind can’t understand in this state, and a distant part of him is pushing him to pause somewhere – to put his head between his legs and breath or to pull the vial of White Honey from his bag and release himself from this state immediately. It’s overwhelmed by the desire to return, to display the evidence of his victory – to show what his hands and teeth will do to those that threaten he and his.

He pushes through the underbrush, a soft whinny greeting his return, and that voice stops as cornflower blue eyes meet his own pitch-black ones.

“Geralt?”

He grunts, low and guttural, before raising the thing’s head to display it proudly, waiting for approval.

“Ah, what a lovely... head? That you’ve got there.” The scent of ink and paper threaded through with lavender grows closer as those eyes draw nearer to him. “Very impressive. For now, though, how about we put the head down and – ”

He drops the head, eyes never leaving those blue ones.

“Wonderful, now,” he feels hands cup either side of his face, concern in those eyes, “do you think you could tell me what’s – what’s going on? I mean, gods, can you even – can you hear me, Geralt?”

And that’s not... right. There shouldn’t be concern in those eyes, but pride to match his own, and for a moment he thinks he might pull back from him – might have found his display lacking and decided to seek out another. He can feel a growl gathering in the back of his throat at the thought, itching to reach forward and grab the man’s hips –

But something buried deep beneath inky black lines and the mixtures made of magic and monsters thrumming through his veins holds him in place, before taking control of his tongue.   
  
“Yes.”

Relief crashes over the man’s – over _Jaskier’s_ face, and he lets out a breath he’d clearly been holding. “Oh, thank the gods, I – ” he cuts himself off with a slight shake of his head before raising his eyes to meet Geralt’s. “What do you need?”

The thing that is nothing more than instinct needs him to tip his neck to the side, to allow him to press his nose to the source of his scent, to shiver as he scrapes his teeth along the side of his neck and –

“Stay.”

Jaskier hesitates for a moment more, clearly wondering whether to press for more, before giving a slight nod. “Okay.”

He takes his hands from Geralt’s face, and the thing immediately wraps its hands around Jaskier, holding him in place, and though Jaskier jumps slightly in surprise, there’s no sudden acrid taste of fear in his scent at the movement.

“I wasn’t leaving,” Jaskier says softly, “I just wasn’t sure if you...” He trails off uncertainly, shifting his hands gingerly, carefully until they’re wrapped around Geralt as well, holding him just as close. “Is this... okay? I can let go if you’d like – ”

Geralt tightens his grip, dropping his head to the crook of Jaskier’s neck and taking deep, steady breaths.

“Alright. Message received.” Jaskier’s words are chased by a small laugh as he starts to gently stroke his fingers through Geralt’s hair. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

And he doesn’t – the two of them standing there for what feels like hours as Geralt breaths in his scent over and over again until the pounding on his heart recedes and he can hear Jaskier’s instead. Until the black lines recede from his face and eyes and the desire to keep Jaskier close turns from a desperate need into something... more manageable.

And yet he doesn’t let go.

“Jaskier.”

“Oh,” Jaskier pulls back slightly but keeps his arms wrapped around him, meeting Geralt’s gaze with his own, “back with us then?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier laughs. “There’s our white wolf.” He hesitates for a moment, before asking the question that Geralt can practically hear buzzing away in his mind. “Do you – do you think you could tell me what happened?”

“Too many potions,” Geralt mutters, forcing his hands to leave Jaskier and ignoring how empty and cold his arms feel without the bard encompassed within them. He stepped away from Jaskier, picking up the head from where he had dropped it and walking over to affix it to Roach’s saddle. “Won’t happen again.”

“Ah, well,” Jaskier heads puts his ink and parchment back into his pack before joining Geralt by Roach with it slung over his shoulder, “glad I was able to help.”

Geralt didn’t respond, all the words that he might have said stuck behind the lump in his throat. He just took Roach’s reins and began to lead her back to the village that had posted the contract. And if he closed his eyes and listened to Jaskier’s never ending chatter as they walked, all the while slowly breathing in and out the scent of lavender, paper and ink, well, no one but him need know.


End file.
